


A Schrodinger State

by notmadderred



Series: Things Changed [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Ableist Language, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brain Damage, Church Isn't Dead But That's not Really Important, Deaf Character, Graphic Description, Humor, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Serious Injuries, Slurs, disorganized thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-07 01:49:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18863290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmadderred/pseuds/notmadderred
Summary: Felix survived.Confused, disoriented, and hurt, he’s trying to find his way to shelter.Tucker didn't have a single fucking clue who this rabid asshole that he picked up was.He was sure his ma said, at some point in his life, “don’t pick up random rabid assholes you find on the street.”But she was dead and he was in a jungle on Chorus, so who gave a fuck?





	A Schrodinger State

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if I've missed any tags.

It takes Felix longer than he’d like to admit to figure it out.

Admittedly, he was in the shittiest of shape. He’d been Fucked. Yeeted right the hell off of that temple and left to fall gracelessly to the unforgiving ground below.

He’d been so focused on not dying that it wasn’t too much of a surprise he hadn’t noticed.

That was what he told himself.

Brain damage was a certainty at this point, but he would’ve let himself fucking die before ending up anything like the sim trooper moron, Caboose. A fucking waste of space.

So, he patched himself up. It was messy, and if he hadn’t been scarred enough before, well… 

He used to yap at Sam that the ladies loved scars, but he wasn’t sure this level would be at all appealing. It was Frankensteinian. Plus, he heard Tucker say that phrase one time and immediately snarled to himself and bristled and tried to, once again, ignore yet another blaring similarity between them.

But Tucker was weak, he’d thought to himself as he forced a bone back into place. Tucker wouldn’t have survived the fall. Tucker wouldn’t have been able to fix himself.

_It wasn’t surprising that he didn't notice he was screaming._

He’d realized with a start that his throat was sore. He’d just finished adjusting his shin (this time, he’d only passed out for a couple of minutes) when the realization hit him, and he threw a startled hand up to his neck. (That quick movement bought him another few minutes of unconsciousness.)

But that fall had been very bad, to put things lightly. A sore throat didn't have shit on the scars that were no doubt peppering Felix’s face.

(His helmet saved him from much of the damage, he thought. But the visor cracked, _the helmet_ cracked, and he hadn’t come across a single big enough reflective piece. He could feel the blood on his face; did his best to remove the shards. He couldn’t sew himself together, though. He couldn’t minimize the aesthetic damage done.)

But a sore throat was weird, right? He doubted it was a sign he’d damaged his vocal cords because the tension hadn’t been there before.

And that was when it occurred to him that he hadn’t made a sound.

Felix blinked, facing the darkness of the night sky above. He hadn’t moved since he’d passed out again.

He swallowed. “Hello?” he tried.

Nothing.

Or… no, not nothing. Because he felt it. He felt the rumble in his throat, felt something pass his lips.

And that was when it occurred to him that he hadn’t not only made a sound, but he hadn’t _heard_ a sound since the second he’d woken after his fall.

Felix didn't panic.

He never, ever panicked.

That was one thing he prided about himself: his unerring composure.

Part of him knew that was bullshit, as he started taking too quick, too sudden breaths that made every rib protest. “FUCK!” he screamed.

He only felt the rush of it leave his body.

His heart was too fast now, and he could sense the rush of it against his ears.

Felix’s fingers gripped at the ground beneath him, the splinted ones protesting.

He snapped. Started yelling, waiting for the sound to come back to him, enduring the pain it put on his chest, in his throat, throughout his broken body.

 

He’d made himself hoarse.

Felix was grumbling uselessly to himself as he crawled deeper into the forest. Right now, he didn't have much of a plan. Plans weren’t his thing. But he did know there was an underground system, and one opening happened to be nearby.

‘Nearby’ proved to be ‘really fucking far’ when your injuries made you incapable of moving more than a couple of feet without gasping and keeling over in pain.

Felix should be dead. But he wasn’t. He was a fucking cockroach.

Ah, fuck -- not a cockroach. That was disgusting.

Except he was disgusting, too, now.

Felix dropped to get another breather.

His eyelids were heavy, but he couldn’t risk closing his eyes -- not when he couldn’t hear potential enemies approaching.

Sleep was off the table.

He needed more sustainable food than an MRE, but he was utterly incapable of catching it. He’d tried, once. Throwing his knife sent fire into his body and brain. He’d missed. That was the moment he realized he couldn’t see depth. The pain in his eye flared up instantly, as if only just realizing itself that it should make itself known.

He was useless. He was helpless. He should be dead.

Felix could feel the cold around him. He’d had to take off his power armor in order to set his bones and work on stitches using his emergency pack, and he couldn’t get it back on. The heating unit had to be busted, anyway. Dragging it with him was out of the question.

Thus, he was left with his undersuit and the meager supplies he could manage to carry. He opted to eat a quarter of the MRE and drink small sips from the small water bottle. He didn't know how long this would take.

How long had it been since the fall? Perhaps 12 hours. With his consciousness fading in and out, it was hard to tell.

Felix bared his teeth in frustration. What had happened there, anyway? Sam… Sam… what had he done?

Fuck. _Fuck._

He wanted to pull at his hair, but he’d learned quickly that doing so would just cause even more pain.

Goddammit.

Why couldn’t he think straight?

He glanced around, taking in his surroundings. Who the fuck was he kidding? There wouldn’t be anyone else here.

He forced his body to relax and closed his eyes.

Fuck, okay. What did he remember?

_A man in a cyan suit throwing something at him. Tucker. Fuckfuckfuck_

_He flew back, the force knocking the air from his lungs. He could feel burns from the blast already crawling along his body -- heat without the flames was the worst because Felix thought it was fucking nonsensical_

_He saw the ground as it approached, meaning he somehow hadn’t passed out on the way down. Or he had, because the ground came too fast too fast for a drop that far too far_

_Ducking and rolling wouldn’t get him shit, he knew, but he was fucking stubborn and tried anyway._

_Too many things cracked.  
Parts of his legs snapped like glow sticks. As he flew forward with the momentum, too stunned to scream, other parts snapped, too. _

_But his helmet cracked. And his visor cracked. And his skull cracked._

_Sound warped and fell. The smell of blood and burning fractured and dropped away._

_It was daylight when he fell, and it was daylight when he first woke up again. But it was also colder._

Felix could feel himself trembling. Could feel the sweat lining his forehead despite the crisp air. His brain felt numb, cloudy; uncomprehending of the meaning behind the tightness in his chest, the breaths coming quicker and quicker.

Felix gasped through the pain. Hot tears were rolling down his cheeks, and he couldn’t even feel the shame of it. When was the last time he cried?

Absently, still sitting on his knees, he reached one shaking hand up to his face.

He’d been clean shaven when he fell. Now, the tell-tale hairs of an oncoming beard brushed against his fingertips.

How long _how fucking long had it been since he fell?_

He should be dead. He should be dead should be dead should be dead

Felix opened his eyes as the swelling in his chest began to represent instinct, began to represent that knowing that _something was coming something bad_

He looked around and no one was there.

The fear lingered.

Felix was heaving for the breaths now. Too many emotions were swelling in his brain and he couldn’t name them didn't understand them couldn’t pry them apart and put them away

His whole body was shaking. His lips were quivering, parted slightly. The tears ran down his face faster now, gathering into his beard.

Felix screamed.

He put everything into it, taking that deep breath, leaning forward, pulling his broken hands into fists where they curled against his chest and _screamed_

And he couldn’t hear it.

He was afraid.

He was _petrified._

He knew he’d felt this way twice before. Once before his fall. The other… the other… 

“Fuck,” he whispered. It touched his lips.

He wasn’t sure what his voice sounded like.

The other…

He forced his eyes shut, face grimacing. _What was it?_

Locus.

Someone… someone named Locus killed him. Except, not really? There was a red creature and the world around him was artificial, but he’d thought, in those moments, that Locus had been real. And Locus had killed him.

Something in Felix’s gut told him that he’d done something to deserve it.

His throat was raw. 

Everything hurt.

He felt mutilated, destroyed. 

He remembered… he remembered wanting revenge. He remembered his own cockiness. And he remembered that it backfired, and Sam… Sam had something to do with it.

Someone stopped Felix. Some _ones_ stopped him.

A fucking… blue moron with a gun that shot confetti and spoke. Caboose. Caboose hadn’t even done anything, really, but his existence alone seemed to tip the odds out of Felix’s favor. 

But _Tucker_.

Tucker and… and the Reds and Blues. Freelancers. Sam?

Nothing was making sense.

He was broken. His brain was broken. He couldn’t fucking think clearly.

No, no, _no_. He wasn’t -- he couldn’t -- he _couldn’t_ be _that_ broken. The fall couldn’t possibly have made him a fucking _retard_ \--

_The crack was audible. Something split into his head, and Felix was able to think -- only briefly -- that perhaps it was his own head lodged in his head. Pieces of skull concaved and sharpened and pushed inward by the fall_

Felix was starving. He was thirsty. He was cold. He was hurting. He should be dead.

A path to an underground shelter was perhaps only half a mile away. He still had a small portion of supplies left.

Felix groaned and let himself drop completely. 

He should be dead.

He should be dead.

 

So why not just fucking die?

 

\--

 

The thing about dying was that it was sometimes difficult to do.

Felix regained some semblance of composure after an hour (it hadn’t been a panic attack _he didn't get panic attacks_ ), but he let himself lie there for a while longer. And wait.

He wasn’t patient.

He didn't like to sit still.

Not to mention, a big part of him was still on edge, tensing up every time he thought he felt something breathe against his neck.

“God-fucking-dammit,” he said to himself, but not even to himself because he couldn’t fucking hear it, and sat up.

The pain was still there, but he ate more of the MRE and drank more of the water.

Half a mile north and there’d be shelter. Maybe.

Felix forced himself to his feet

and immediately fell.

Fuck. _Fuck_. Whatever half-minded adrenaline bullshit from before had faded, because every hairline fracture to clean break of his legs sent pain arching up his nervous system and momentarily stunting his brain.

“FUCKING SHITTING COCK-BITING MOTHER FUCKER--”

He’d need to crawl again.

But his ribs and his arms and his fingers

He _needed_ to crawl.

_But the stitches barely holding his fucking organs in place_

Felix dragged one hand out in front of himself. The other. He barely pushed his body up

_fuckfuckFUCK_

and pulled himself forward.

Rinse and fucking repeat.

 

\--

 

He was going mad.

Felix kept stopping, chest heaving as he couldn’t help the giggles from escaping his raw throat.

He was fucking delirious, and to be honest? Pretty fucking great.

Every inch felt like it made a tendon snap, and that was no good. Every foot clawed at the raw stitches in his arms, popping a bunch of them open.

The world kept turning into a city and back again. Into a ship and back again. Into a military base and back again. He was pretty sure the forest was right, but at this point, his only goal was to move forward.

Something grabbed his shoulder.

Felix was pretty sure he screamed as he flipped his body over and scooted himself away

(fucking ouch ow ow ow)

Someone was standing in front of him, a radio in his hand. He had dark skin and black hair that rested against his shoulders in neat dreads. His brown eyes were studying him with what looked like concern. He was bundled in warm-looking clothes that Felix was a bit jealous of and kind of wanted to pet?

The man’s mouth moved. It occurred to Felix he was speaking.

Fuck.

Felix blinked. 

The man wasn’t trying to kill him, which was good. Good.

He squinted his eyes and watched the man’s lips more closely.

Yeah, he wasn’t getting jack-fucking-shit.

Felix blinked again, and the man drew his radio closer, apparently speaking into it now.

Then the man moved forward, a bit abruptly.

Felix couldn’t tell whether or not he’d yelped in surprise but he didn't do shit like that so definitely not

And the man’s mouth moved again and Felix bared his teeth because people approaching him seemed dangerous and he was weak and injured and even though this guy seemed to have good intentions Felix couldn’t trust him but also the man looked familiar but Felix couldn’t remember why but it made him scared(notscaredhedidn’tgetscared) so he hissed and growled like the fucking animal he was until the man picked him up bridal style and began walking.

Felix’s head rolled back. His right arm dangled weightlessly by his side, and his left was resting on his chest. The man’s hands were tucked under Felix’s knees so the remaining length of his legs was also left to dangle. 

He couldn’t even fucking fight.

He closed his eyes.

 

\--

 

Tucker didn't have a single fucking clue who this rabid asshole that he picked up was.

He was sure his ma said, at some point in his life, “don’t pick up random rabid assholes you find on the street.”

But she was dead and he was in a jungle on Chorus, so who gave a fuck?

Whatever he’d been expecting when Kimball mentioned that one of the old defense mechanisms had picked up a heat signature about a mile from an outpost, it wasn’t this.

The Reds and Blues had just taken down Hargrove and now bore some degree of celebrity status. Tucker, much to his own surprise, hated all the attention. The moment Kimball mentioned that heat signature, he volunteered to check it out. He wanted fresh air, anyway.

When she told him where, exactly, it was, some primal part of him panicked. Because it was so close to where Felix had been thrown off that temple.

But Felix was dead. Locus’ ability to wield his sword proved that much.

And maybe it would turn out to be some fucking animal. Who the fuck knew? Tucker brought his sword and a tranquilizer gun just in case.

And it turned out to be a person. A living, breathing human being.

Well, as close to living and breathing that someone who looked like the living dead could be.

“Hello?” Tucker said once he was in range of the guy. He seemed to be wearing an undersuit -- too thin for the weather. Even face-down, several slashes, burn marks, and other injuries were apparent. There was one particularly long laceration running down from his right shoulder to his left hip that looked to be entirely untreated. It was split wide open, and notably deep. 

Tucker gagged a bit and brought a fist to his mouth. Fuck, that _had_ to be painful.

“Hello?” he repeated, louder this time.

The man was breathing raggedly, and dragged himself a bit further. His fingers on his left hand looked to be in rough shape, from what he could see. His shoulder looked… wrong. His legs had obviously seen some shit: they were splinted up, and the clothes had been ripped in order to make series of stitches everywhere. The exposed skin on his left side seemed to be burned and scarring.

Then there was the case of his head. 

His hair was unruly, and matted with blood. Whatever style he’d had before was completely gone. Tucker could spot a few glints of something sharp, and something he really, really fucking hoped wasn’t bone.

What the fuck had happened?

“Dude!” Tucker yelled, and he could hear his own concern wafting through the annoyance at being yet to receive a response, “Do you want help!”

The man’s head dropped slightly, and he released some kind of frustrated laugh. 

The sound was eerie -- low and drawled out, hoarse. Maniacal.

Tucker couldn’t help as his brain flashed back to _him_.

But Felix was dead.

And this man definitely needed some serious help.

Tucker kneeled down and grabbed the shoulder that looked the least damaged.

The man immediately yawped in apparent surprise, turned over, and shuffled back a few (really fucking painful looking) steps.

He had the beginnings of a beard coating his lower face, rough and somewhat patchy. There were cuts all over his face, with one nasty gash stretching from his forehead, through his eyebrow, and _through his fucking eye_. Another slash ran from one cheekbone to the other -- not quite twinning Wash’s scar, but close. Even the peppered wounds looked sure to scar, especially since they, too, hadn’t been able to be properly treated. Part of his forehead and temple seemed burned, much in a way reminiscent of Donut’s own injuries.

He looked like absolute shit.

Tucker’s grip on the radio tightened. “Hey, man. Are you okay? Do you want help?”

He was gasping and wincing as he watched Tucker. It was like he couldn’t comprehend the language or--

_Or he was fucking deaf._

That would make a lot more sense.

Stupidly, Tucker asked, “Are you deaf?”

The man squinted, his own dry, cracked lips seeming to try to mimic what Tucker was saying.

Tucker could see the second he gave up, his whole body seeming to sigh with a blink.

Tucker turned on the radio and brought it closer. “I found the source of the heat signature. It’s a man -- he’s… he’s really beaten up. He needs help.” Tucker paused, sparing one last glance. “I’m bringing him in.”

The radio lit up with static before a dim, “Roger that. I’ll let Dr. Grey know. Over,” came across.

Tucker stashed away the radio and approached the guy.

He immediately started fucking seething; hissing and growling and baring his teeth. Tucker tried to calm him down with, “Dude, I’m not gonna hurt you,” before remembering what he was dealing with and _fuck_. He was just gonna have to go for it.

He picked him up as gently as possible, which was pretty hard since the man was still thrashing and yipping in pain. 

With a grunt, Tucker hefted him into a bridal-style hold.

He was pretty heavy -- Tucker could make out the lean muscles along his body, but his attention had been on the injuries. He was also a ways taller than Tucker himself, but Tucker would manage. He was fucking strong -- Grif could go fuck himself for ever fucking saying otherwise.

The second the man was seemingly secure in Tucker’s arms, he stopped struggling entirely, his head dropping and limbs swaying listlessly. It was almost… sad. But the man’s behaviors seemed to turn between sad or fucking insane, and Tucker preferred the former.

 

The walk definitely could have been worse. And Tucker was certainly glad he’d found the guy because he probably wouldn’t have made it. It wasn’t far -- a little less than a half mile -- but with the shape he was in and the unruly forestry…

He was sweating when he made it to the outpost.

Dr. Grey and Kimball were already waiting for him there, where they helped ease the man from Tucker’s arms to drop him inside, where they then placed his body on the metal gurney within.

Tucker closed the hatch, savoring the rush of warm air. He pulled the gray cloak off and tossed it on a nearby table.

Dr. Grey clapped her hands together and leaned forward, an excited glint in her eye. Tucker repressed a shudder. “How interesting!” she quipped. “This man is in a deplorable shape. It’s a miracle he’s alive at all!”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Tucker said, wrapping his arms around himself. “There’s a gash on his back I think you should look at first -- I think--”

“Oh, now, don’t worry Captain Tucker! I won’t be needing you to think. I do know what I’m doing, after all!”

Tucker only pouted a little at that statement.

“When you said he needed help, I hadn’t imagined this,” Kimball offered softly. “Whatever happened to him…” She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment, “whoever did this must have been a monster.”

Tucker didn't like the sound of that. “You think someone here did this? Like, in your ranks? Should we be looking out for suspicious activity or something?” 

“I don’t know.” She brushed her hair over her shoulder. “The injuries look recent…” She swallowed and glanced away.

Tucker didn't blame her. She’d seen some of the worst of the worst in regards to injuries while in charge, but this shit was hard to look at.

“I’d say this happened roughly four days ago!” Dr. Grey said. Apparently she’d already cleaned much of her equipment, as she was going ahead and hooking something into the man’s arm. At Tucker’s curious look, she said, “this is to stabilize him as he’s brought to the med bay. We’ll need our best equipment to save him!”

“Yeah, I can believe it.”

He actually looked to be in some state of peace, with his eyes closed. His chest still heaved with every breath, making it apparent that something was wrong there (broken ribs maybe?), but still. Far better than the wide-eyed, panicky, hissing mess from before.

Tucker frowned. Before the scars, Tucker suspected this man could have been described as handsome. Perhaps even now, once he was cleaned up, he still had a chance.

“Oh!” he said with a start, and Dr. Grey looked up as she finished inserting the syringe, “he’s deaf. Which I think you should know in case he wakes up and… y’know.”

She smiled, that big smile that looked simultaneously sarcastic and genuine. “Yes, Captain Tucker. I presumed as much based on his head injury!”

“Wait, this is new for him?” Jesus fucking Christ -- this guy was going to wake up to a seriously strange new world. If he’d wake up at all.

“Yep! Now, you and Kimball start rolling him to the med bay. I’ll draw up the procedures on the way so I can get right to work!”

Kimball and Tucker both nodded, grabbing one side each and going. “What if he was -- I dunno -- an enemy? Like, what if he turns out to be one of Hargrove’s mercs?” asked Tucker.

Kimball grunted and steered them to the left. “Faster this way,” she said. “And we’ll deal with things as they come. But I’m not sure -- when you dealt with Hargrove, did you get the impression he was disposing of some of his failed mercs in this way? And why haven’t we come across any others?”

“Maybe they ran out before he got to them? I don’t fuckin’ know. Still, we have to consider the possibility--”

“Right now, this man is just a patient!” Grey chirped, but there was a bit of menace behind it. “Let’s treat him as such! If push comes to shove, of course, I would be quite happy to take care of things.”

Christ that lady was fucking scary as fuck.

Tucker clamped his mouth shut and kept it that way for the rest of the way to the med bay.

The man didn't so much as stir.

 

\--

 

Wash’s head poked into the medical bay a couple hours later. Tucker had been sitting in one of the many plastic chairs, having already changed position at least thirty times (bow-chicka-bow-wow) and finding not one of them to be comfortable. “Hey, Tucker. I heard you found someone?”

Tucker scoffed, lifting his chin from where he had it settled in the palm of his hand. “Something like that. Grey’s operating on him. I haven’t heard how he’s doing.”

Wash stepped in fully then. The bags beneath his eyes were as pronounced as ever, but there was a bit more light in his eyes than Tucker had ever seen before. Somehow, that put him a bit at ease. Tucker let loose a small smile. Wash took the seat next to him, pausing for a moment before looking at Tucker with one of his hesitant grins. “You’re worried.”

“Pfft! No! I’m _so_ not worried! It’s just-- I just-- ugh. Fine. I’m worried. It’s-- you didn't see him! It was fucking horrible! He should be dead!”

Wash nodded thoughtfully. “Dr. Grey is really good. If anyone can save him, it’s her.”

“Yeah, I know.” Tucker harrumphed as he crossed his arms. “I just wish I got some progress updates. I’ve been sitting here on my ass all day-- I mean, I literally carried this guy for, like, half a mile! I deserve to know!”

Wash barked out a quick laugh and elbowed him. “Stop whining. She’s busy, asshole. Not everyone can be tending you at all times.”

“Oh, yeah? But isn’t that your job?” Tucker couldn’t help but ask, twisting his mouth into a smirk.

It was worth it. Wash blushed and pursed his lips, sculpting his features into an indignant expression. “So I should go?”

“Oh, come on!” Tucker leaned closer to him. “I totally didn't say that!”

“You’re the worst,” Wash stated matter-of-factly.

Tucker lifted his hands. “Whatever you say, boss.”

In that moment, someone cleared their throat. Both Wash and Tucker turned to see Dr. Grey standing there, one perfectly-sculpted eyebrow raised. “Your mystery man has survived his procedures!” she said, tilting her head fractionally. “It will be taking him a long time to recover, but luckily with the war at an end, medical supplies were in abundance! Biofoam truly does work wonders,” she added absently. “You can visit him, if you’d like, but he hasn’t woken up yet. There are some things I have to check on, though.” Her pitch dropped slightly. “I think there’s a very good chance I’ve seen this patient’s file before. Hopefully Jameson kept the medical files organized like I asked!”

Rest in peace, Jameson, if he had not done that.

Wash rose, back popping slightly, which made Tucker snicker just a bit. Wash rolled his eyes. “Come on. Let’s see your ‘mystery man.’”

“Ugh! Don’t say it like that!”

“Say what like what?” he asked innocently.

“Mystery man! In that weird tone! What the fuck even was that?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

They stepped into the room.

Wash let out a low whistle. “Ouch.”

“Yeah, ‘ouch’ definitely covers it.” Tucker glanced the man over once more. He was covered in bandages and stitches. A shin and a femur were wrapped in temporary casts, as was one wrist. Some of his fingers had fresh splints. The arm without the wrist-cast was tucked in a sling. His shoulder also must’ve been popped back into place.

His burns were covered in the bandages, as was his damaged eye. His skull was entirely covered in gauze, though there had obviously been some blood leakage at some point.

Tucker knew there was still more that he couldn’t see.

“I wonder what you’d look like with a beard,” he said.

They were both still looking at the man.

“It’d be different. I think I could pull it off,” Wash said. His hand went to the scar that crossed his cheekbones and nose. “I think we’ll have a matching scar,” he continued.

Tucker didn't mention how that was one of his earlier thoughts when he first saw this man’s face. “Wow, Wash. A time like this and still all you can think about is yourself.”

“Hey!” Wash squawked. “You’re the one who brought me up!”

Tucker smirked and, doing his best impression of Wash’s voice, said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Wash snuffed at him. “Fuck you.”

“Wha’za fuck?”

Tucker and Wash shared an alarmed glance.

Wash took action first. “Hey,” he said soothingly, as the man glanced around suspiciously before examining the various treatments that had been done to him. “How are you feeling?”

The man looked up to the two of them, blue eye flitting from Wash to Tucker. “Oh, fuck,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “You’re the guy who found me.” He frowned before growling softly. “Fuck-- am I-- am I even talking?” He looked to Tucker once again. “Christ, I can’t even fucking--”

“Yes,” Tucker annunciated clearly.

The man blinked. “Oh. Awesome. Where am I?”

“Chorus,” said Wash, but he sounded a bit confused, glancing between Tucker and the man.

The man, of course, didn't hear him. “Oh, shit, right. Yeah, I can’t--” He closed his eye and snarled, “ _Fuck_.”

Tucker looked to Wash. “He went deaf from… a brain injury? Whenever this happened,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the man’s form. “I don’t know exactly what else it did.”

The man’s eye opened again. “Where’s Sam?” he asked suddenly, his tone pitched a bit higher now. As if he was desperate but didn't want it to show, but also wasn’t sure how to keep it hidden. Tucker was familiar. “I-- I think I need to apologize. To him. To Sam. Fuck, you probably don’t even know--” He cut himself off again and took a deep breath, wincing slightly. “I have to-- I have to go.” His eye roamed over his prone body, covered entirely with various injuries. “What-- what did I--”

Luckily, Grey bustled in at that moment, instantly shoving Tucker and Wash out of the way to offer the man’s forearm a gentle touch. His head whipped to face her (the motion seemed familiar, sent a pang of fear through his chest), and she gave him a gentle smile. She used her free hand to motion up, taking in a dramatic breath, before lowering her hand and dramatically exhaling.

His eye was wide, searching, but he got the idea and gave a sharp nod, taking deep breaths. “Deep breaths aren’t best for him right now,” she said, continuing the motions with the man and maintaining eye contact with him as she spoke to Wash and Tucker, “but it’s better than what he’d do in the midst of a panic attack! So let’s try to keep him from having those.”

“We didn't do anything,” Tucker defended immediately.

The man’s cheeks were slightly red, and he eventually forced his gaze away, evidently done. 

“I think this is new for him,” Grey continued. “He sustained quite a bit of brain damage, so disorientation and memory loss aren’t unprecedented, but he obviously isn’t sure what to do with that. He’ll panic if he can’t fill in the gaps. Not to mention that he lost the ability to hear and smell!”

“Damn,” said Wash. “That’s… something. How much is…” 

“Oh, only time will tell what heals on that front! I did what I could, but it’s ultimately up to the brain to reorient itself given the trauma!”

“Speaking of which, what happened to him?”

“Someone tell me where the hell I am,” the man stated. “Or just, fucking, write it down.”

Dr. Grey was on it in an instant. She grabbed a pen and hit it against the man’s shoulder. He turned and gave her an incredulous look, at which she smiled (every smile of hers was a bit manic, frankly) and began writing. It took her several seconds, but… 

She turned the notepad to the man. He leaned forward a bit to read it, jaw jutting out.

He huffed and rolled his eye. “Oh, so now I’m deaf _and_ not allowed to talk. Fucking great!”

Tucker read the note then.

_You’re on Chorus. Limit talking -- slight damage to throat_

Eh, Tucker would’ve had a similar reaction.

The man’s brows were furrowed now. “Wait… Chorus? That’s where I… uh, that’s where… Fuck! Why the _fuck_ was I here!”

“I don’t think this is going to end well,” Wash noted.

Grey was trying to get his attention again, perhaps to write him another note, but he actively ignored her. “Fucking--” He ripped off the sling and started to move--

Grey grabbed that arm and squeezed.

He cried out before snarling at her, eye now a narrow, and very pissed, slit. Then he shoved her away, situating himself back into his original position on the bed. “Fuck you,” he barked.

She fixed the sling. Then she grabbed the pen, drew something on the notepad and showed it to him.

She’d circled ‘limit talking.’

“Yeah, good luck with that. I’m not gonna fucking stop.”

Okay, so this guy was kind of an asshole.

“He reminds me of you,” Wash said. “Except he has a deeper voice.”

“Fuck you!” Tucker said, voice unfairly high as Grey said, “Oh, that’s partly because of the damage he received!”

“Who the fuck are you people?” the man whined, and, yep, totally not Tucker, nuh-uh. Before anyone could write an answer, he continued, “and where the fuck is Sam! He has to still be here, I… I think he was here. He-- fuck. Shit. Wait, are you guys from Chorus or are you from somewhere else and don’t know-- shit this could… do you know me?” he settled on.

Tucker shrugged.

Grey eyed Tucker and Wash, not responding. Maybe she hadn’t found his file.

Wash, too, shrugged.

“Oh, great,” the man said. “I think I did something bad.”

“Wait, what?” said Wash.

“Or not?” the man tilted his head, gaze drifting to the wall behind Wash and Tucker. “Maybe I was just… mad. No, I think I just made Sam mad. No, wait, I think I made lots of people mad. I mean, why else would someone try to kill me, right?” His eye refocused, and he looked back to Tucker. “Wait, I can’t hear your answer. But I think that’s what people do.” His voice was wavering, sounding uncertain. Tucker was getting, like, second-hand uncertainty. “People get mad at you and kill you. But you must have done something to make them mad. But… but Sam didn't kill me.” His eye slid to the side, turning thoughtful again. “That was Tucker.”

Tucker sputtered and immediately choked on his own spit and started coughing. “What?” he choked out. “Wha- whatthefuck?!”

“Wait, so you do know him? What--”

Tucker shook his head wildly at Wash, eyes pleading. “I don’t recognize him! I swear! I wouldn’t just-- I don’t-- fuck! Maybe he mixed something up? I don’t know!”

Grey was mostly silent, only releasing a soft hum.

Wash looked uncertain. “Should we ask him? I mean, you’re standing right in front of him, and he didn't recognize you--”

“That doesn’t mean anything!” Grey chirped. “I’d say he has a fifty-fifty chance of recognizing someone. People from his past have a better chance! If he met you more recently, then it’s less likely.”

“Shit,” said Tucker. “Wait, we don’t even know who he is. Let’s-- let’s ask who he is! If I tried to kill someone like-- like this, I’d know, right?”

The man looked back to them. “I need to apologize to Sam. I need to see him. I don’t know what I-- I’m pretty sure I did something to him. Fuck. I fucking hate apologies.” His head rolled back with a groan.

“Who the fuck is Sam?” Tucker said, and at this point, he was pretty sure he sounded shrill.

“I… think I know.”

Tucker screamed and jumped back, nearly crashing into the bed. Wash released a startled yelp and instinctively grabbed a knife.

Locus materialized into view.

“I hate you so much,” said Tucker. “Just because we need you to testify about Hargrove doesn’t mean you have to lurk!”

Locus grunted.

“Fuck!”

Tucker looked back to the man in the bed.

He was visibly shaking, eye wide it darted around the room, returning to Locus immediately. “G-get-- what are you-- please don’t--” And once again he ripped off the sling, grabbing the pen Grey had been using. “Stay the _hell_ away from me! I don’t know why you-- no, you also killed me. Right? I-- I can’t--”

“Locus,” Grey said sharply, “I think you need to leave.”

Locus hesitated for whatever-fucking reason, hand twitching at his side.

Then he lifted his hands to his helmet and pulled it off.

Locus was Hispanic, with silky black hair tied back neatly (and Tucker was definitely not jealous of that beautiful hair. Nope, not at all). Most notably was probably the scars in the shape of an X in the middle of his face.

Interesting to see his face and all, but… why?

Tucker glanced back to the other man, unsure.

He dropped the pen. “ _Sam?_ ”

Oh, damn. Tucker finally had a name for Locus.

Wait.

How the fuck did this guy know Locus?

“Wha-- I don’t--” the man shook his head, “I don’t get it. You’re… Locus? I thought you… I remember you shooting me in the head. But you wouldn’t-- why--”

“That wasn’t real,” Locus stated smoothly.

The man squinted. “Sam, I’m fucking _deaf_. I can’t hear you.”

Locus’ eyes widened, clearly surprised.

“Just-- fuck.” He took a deep breath. “You’re Sam and Locus. Locus… killed me. But he didn't really. That… that didn't really happen. But you still… which means I still… goddammit.”

Locus’ eyes shifted to Tucker.

He looked just as intimidating without a helmet, though definitely more expressive. “What?” Tucker snapped.

“Do you not recognize him?” he asked.

“What-- no! I think. You do?”

Instead of answering that, “Does he not recognize you?”

“No? I mean, he said my name…” Oh fuck this.

Everyone was so unhelpful. He needed to know--

He grabbed the pen from the man’s lap, at which the man snapped at him to “Watch it!” before asking Grey for the paper pad.

She handed it over without a word.

He wrote down the question and turned it over to the man.

He read it once. Twice.

“Oh,” he said. “I think…” He shook his head. “This is something I should fucking know. What the fuck is-- Felix.” He looked into Tucker’s eyes. “I’m… pretty sure my name is Felix.”

Tucker’s heart stopped.

His grip on both the pen and paper tightened.

He could hear his blood pounding in his ears.

 _Felix_.

That wasn’t possible.

Maybe he was mistaken? Except he knew Locus, and no one else did.

Maybe… maybe he was pretending he didn't remember anything?

No, then he just wouldn’t have said his name. No one -- except maybe Locus, who seemed entirely unsure how to handle the man before him -- had recognized him. Unless Grey had. But Grey was… Grey. And she’d run tests, she’d operated on him. Everything she said about his brain damage, his memory -- everything was true.

Tucker was pretty sure Wash was saying something.

He looked back down to the pad, flipped over a page, and wrote something else. Showed it to… to Felix.

Felix narrowed his eye, and Tucker’s heart skipped. How hadn’t he recognized him? 

But he knew how. 

Felix looked like someone else. Talked in a different voice. Was lost, confused; and his speech patterns reflected that.

And that sword had come to fucking life in Locus’ grip.

“You’re Lavernius Tucker,” Felix drawled after reading the paper. He looked up to Tucker, cocking his head to study him. “Pfft, no way. You’re too hot to be Tucker.”

He…

Well, how the fuck does someone respond to that?

“Jesus Christ,” Locus muttered behind him.

Felix looked so fucking confident…

“I think I would be the one to fucking know if I’m Tucker,” he practically yelled.

“Okay,” Felix drawled, “I can definitely tell that you’re yelling at me right now. But, like, that’s it. That’s all I know.” He looked back to Sam, quickly dismissing the conversation in a way that made Tucker _hurt_ but… but what the fuck could he do?

Felix was a fucking monster, and he didn't even know it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, face looking like stone. Hiding.

A monster that was apologizing to someone he’d hurt, someone he didn't remember how he’d hurt.

Fuck.

 _Fuck_.

He turned on his heel and walked out.

 

\--

 

“Why, yes, hello, Tucker. I was doing nothing. Yes, um… how are you, Tucker?”

Tucker had opted to get some air outside, away from any reporters or prying eyes. Of course Caboose would be here. “Fine, Caboose.” Wait, Caboose sounded guilty. “What are you doing?”

“Um, if I tell you that I’m turning Freckles into a very small version of his very big self, would you be mad?”

Tucker blinked. “You mean… a mini-mantis?”

“Ah, yes! Unless that is bad. Then no.”

Tucker huffed in a small laugh. “Yeah, whatever. Just make sure Lopez has a look at it before you finish.”

Caboose didn't respond, instead shuffling closer. He towered over Tucker, brown hair swaying in front of his eyes. Ugh, Tucker would have to cut it soon. “Um… are you injured?”

Tucker frowned. “What? No.” Then he straightened, “Wait, if that’s, like, your fucked-up version of a warning to say you’re going to hurt me then--”

“No! That is not-- gah, Tucker! I would not do that!” He sniffed in what may have been offense or bad timing. “I meant, um… that you are hurt. In the head.”

Caboose was really making an effort there, starting to wring his hands together as he mulled over his words. Tucker sighed and tried to piece it together. “Do you mean… are you asking if I’m upset?”

“Yes! That is what I am asking you. Ugh, stupid Tucker! Why did it take so long?”

“Oh, fuck you,” he said, but it was half-hearted, said more out of habit than anything else. Caboose was grinning at him. “But, uh… I’m just figuring something out.”

“Oh, like a puzzle? I like puzzles, and sometimes, I am good at them.”

“Sort of.” May as well get it off his chest. “Felix is alive. And here.”

“Ah, yes. I remember Felix. He was bad, right?”

Tucker looked toward the mountainside. The sun was beginning to tuck behind them, sending a spray of orange over the valley. It was beautiful. He… he’d never noticed. Never had time to take in the views. “Yeah. He was.”

Caboose hummed and tilted his head. “And what about now? Is he good again?”

“He wasn’t--” Tucker cut himself off. Trying to explain to Caboose that Felix had never been good, had manipulated and betrayed them, would be hard. But it was still nagging him, like he’d be tricking the younger trooper. “He wasn’t good before, Caboose. He was lying to us.”

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about then,” Caboose said matter-of-factly. “Before he met us! Everyone is good at some time in life. Even you. Ahhh, at least I think so. Yes.”

Caboose joined him at the ledge. Freckles was nowhere in sight. 

Why did he make good points? Tucker always swore he was going insane every time Caboose said something like that. “Maybe,” he offered. “Felix doesn’t remember hurting us, I think. Well, he remembers some things, but he’s having a hard time sorting it out. But he did something nice when I was there. He said sorry.”

“Apologies are good,” said Caboose. “But, um, sometimes I have to blame Tucker.”

Tucker snorted. “Yeah. You have no choice.”

“Yes. I am glad you understand.”

They stood in silence for a moment longer. Caboose’s fidgeting seemed to be at a minimum today. Perhaps tinkering with Freckles had done him some good.

“Well,” Caboose began, then smacked his lips together, “I am going now.”

“Where to?” Tucker asked, lifting his brows. “You aren’t going to the reporters, right?”

“No, no. I am going to Felix.”

And he was gone.

Tucker blinked. “No, wait--” He rounded the corner.

Caboose had already disappeared.

“What the fuck? Goddammit.”

He began the trek back to the medical bay.

 

\--

 

Grey left the room.

Felix wasn’t sure exactly when, but he was confident it was after not-Tucker’s maybe-boyfriend left.

Sam was still standing just inside the doorway.

He hadn’t responded to Felix’s apology.

“Jesus fuck-- I’m sorry, okay! I know I don’t remember but obviously if I was convinced you had a reason to kill me and since you actually did let me almost die, I fucked up somewhere! And I’m sorry! Fucking--” Felix dropped his head, pulling back his lips to prevent the tears from coming. He was fucked up. He was so fucked up and he didn't even know why. He knew vaguely how. He knew vaguely when. But he didn't… he didn't know why.

But the fact that he did fuck up enough for Sam to want him dead wasn’t surprising. He owned up to being an asshole. It was part of his schtick. 

And yet, how did it come to this?

He knew Sam.

He knew he cared about Sam. A lot.

He knew he rarely proved as much.

He knew this, but he didn't remember it. He didn't know how he knew Sam, or what, really, he did with him. He knew they both were skilled fighters. He knew Sam was better than him. 

He… he knew he came to Chorus for something. For a reason that probably wasn’t important enough to warrant betraying Sam.

But he betrayed Sam long before Chorus, didn't he?

How? Why?

One thing he did remember was right before his fall. His desire for revenge.

Fucking stupid. Revenge for what?

Because he did something wrong. Something very, very wrong, and he could feel it building up.

He knew he hid that feeling sometimes, knew he shoved away any guilt until he couldn’t feel it anymore, and then he replaced it with pride and greed and selfishness and, and… 

But he couldn’t fucking remember.

A man named Tucker killed him. 

Tucker made him sick because he was like Felix, except… except not. He was… good?

Which was why he had to kill Felix. Because Felix was bad.

When did he end up like this?

So… broken.

He was broken now, but perhaps he’d been even more broken before.

Perhaps he deserved it all. Deserved being unable to hear, deserved being unable to smell, deserved to be partially blind, deserved to be battered, deserved to be brain-damaged, deserved to be broken.

But he just fucking wanted to remember.

And he didn't want…

He didn't want his brain on fire.

Part of him knew that was almost wrong. To want to be back to normal. To not have this huge spot where everything felt like it was painted over with molasses. To be able to process his own fucking thoughts, to not get distracted and confused by his _own fucking brain and_

To not be pissed for being so fucking slow, unable to grasp. He wanted to _hear_. He-- he needed it. Something to ground him, but without sound there wasn’t anything was there was there? Just his own brain fucking around and fucking up and forcing him to process things that his brain couldn’t even actually process and

There was a hand on his forearm. It squeezed him gently.

Felix looked up.

Sam was looking at him with a degree of concern.

He… he couldn’t say for certain, but he was pretty sure he hadn’t seen him with that expression in a long, long time. 

“What did I do to you?” he asked.

He wasn’t sure if his voice was loud enough to be heard, but Sam was close enough and… and his brows went down, just slightly, and his lips pinched in, just slightly, and his eyes momentarily flitted to the left. Actions all so familiar yet strange. A man he’d both known forever and not at all.

He’d turned Sam into a monster, hadn’t he? He’d turned him into Locus.

It was Felix. It was all Felix.

He was the fucking monster.

Sam met Felix’s gaze once more before tilted his head slightly, gesturing at his lap.

Felix looked down.

He hadn’t noticed Sam put it there.

It was the pad of paper, with several neat lines of words scrawled on it. 

_1\. Your name is Isaac Gates._

“I’ve gotta stop you at number one,” Felix said, frowning. “That’s not my name. My name is Felix.”

He looked over in time to see Sam just barely roll his eyes. He grabbed the pad of paper, tore out a page, and scrawled something out. 

_Felix was a code name._

Oh. Like Locus was a code name.

Felix frowned. “Isaac. Jesus-- does that even suit me? Isaac Gates. What am I, an early 2200s trillionaire asshole?”

Sam took the paper and added something. Gave it back.

_Essentially._

“Oh, fuck you!” 

He crumbled that paper into a ball and threw it at the trash can.

He missed by a yard.

Right.

Eye.

Right.

He sniffed. “Ugh. When’s the last time I did that?”

It was rhetorical, and either way he wasn’t sure he wanted to see Sam’s reaction.

Isaac. Isaac.

It sounded… lighter than Felix. Less weight, less pain. Less guilt. Even if he was the same person.

He looked back to the original notepad.

_2\. You are 32 years old._

“When’s my birthday.” He looked at Sam. “Well? What about it? When the big day. The b-day. The day of birth.”

Sam said something that looked suspiciously like, “You’re high something-something-something.”

“I’m not high,” he retorted as he tried to get a better view of Sam’s lips to make out the words. Sam shifted back, and Isaac got the impression that wasn’t at all what Sam had said. “I’m just-- oh, fuck. Pain meds. Am I on pain meds? Because I still feel like shit, so they’d be fucking awful pain meds. And you didn't answer!”

Sam gave him a Look.

Isaac challenged that Look for, like, maybe two seconds before he got bored. “What do I even fucking look like right now?”

He lifted his free arm (Grey apparently decided he could live without the sling) and brought it to his head.

“OW! FUCKING SHIT-- WHY DID YOU LET ME DO THAT! FUCKING SONUVABITCH! OW!” He wheeled on Sam. “WHEN IS MY FUCKING BIRTHDAY?”

Sam shrugged.

“GODDAMMIT WHY?”

Sam grabbed another paper.

_Shut up. You’re loud._

Isaac frowned. Bundled up that paper.

Looked Sam dead in the eyes.

And ate it.

Heh. He could suck it.

The fact that Sam didn't look surprised, but rather disappointed, didn't bother him one fucking bit.

Isaac swallowed the paper.

Sam closed his eyes in his, ‘God help me in dealing with this dumbass’ way.

He felt himself grinning. 

_3\. You don’t have any siblings. Your parents passed away before we met._

He forgot how methodical Sam was.

Reading some outline of events and facts about his past was… it wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t the same as remembering.

Like… how did he feel about his parents? How did they die?

He remembered their faces, sort of. Remembered in the same way someone who forgot to carry around a picture would remember.

“I can’t read this,” he said, feeling it leave him airily.

The words tumbled out. He hadn’t meant to say them, didn't even realize they were on his lips in the first place.

“I-- I didn't mean--”

He could feel himself starting to panic again. Why was he always panicking? Why the fuck--

The hand on his arm squeezed again.

Sam carefully mouthed, ‘It’s okay,’ and pulled the paper pad away.

Isaac took a deep breath.

He needed to adjust.

He needed to get used to this. Whether he liked it or not, this was his new norm. But how-- how could he get used to it? All those gaps and drops and faults and skips in his brain -- every one made him a bit angrier. Made him angrier until he forgot and got distracted. Then the fact that he forgot and got distracted from his anger like that made him somehow more pissed. It was a fucking cycle. A cycle that ended with him eating paper in part because he thought it was fucking hilarious and in part because he didn't even know why he’d been upset in the first place.

Sam suddenly started, pulling his hand back and looking up at the doorway, alarmed.

Isaac followed his gaze to see a man standing there. He was tall and muscular, but the way he was rocking back and forth on his feet and letting his floppy brown hair fall into his eyes made him… unintimidating.

He blinked. “Uh, hey.”

The man smiled broadly, tilting his head and closing his eyes from the force of that smile. ‘Hello!’ Isaac could make out. The rest he did not.

He glanced to Sam, who was speaking to the man, looking careful and just a tad confused.

Isaac just-- he needed to know what was happening. “Who are you?”

Sam held out the paper and pen to the man, who examined it for a second. Then he looked up and babbled something. Sam nodded.

The man took the paper and pen, quickly wrote something in large, deliberate motions before handing it to Isaac with the same big smile from before.

_I AM CABOSE HELLO_

Did… did he mean ‘Caboose?’

Isaac let his eye flit back up to Caboose. “H--”

Caboose rushed to put a hand over his mouth. Isaac squawked at him and glared. “What the fuck?” he asked, probably muffled and hard to understand.

Caboose mimicked writing something down and pointed at him.

Isaac stared at him.

Caboose sighed, making sure Isaac knew this by dramatically lifting and dropping his shoulders. Then he took the paper back.

_YOU RITE TOO ITS FUN TO LERN :D_

Oh, for fuck’s sake. 

Isaac snatched the pen forcefully from Caboose’s grip. Caboose was unfazed.

He stared at the paper. Clenched his fist harder around the pen. He… couldn’t quite recall how to hold it right. Something akin to shame burned at his cheeks. He could write. It wasn’t fucking hard. He could hold a goddamn pen.

Caboose tapped at his shoulder and gave him a smaller smile. Isaac glared. Caboose then, slowly and with surprising care, adjusted Isaac’s hand into the proper form.

It was almost embarrassing, but… 

He should say thank you.

He scribbled something out in messy handwriting. It was unsteady, shaky, and slow, but it got the point across.

_what the fuck do you want_

Caboose saw the response and was ecstatic. It was… absurd. Just absurd. Caboose was a fucking moron, and nothing else.

_I AM HERE TO HELP BECUZ I UNDERSTAND WHAT IS YOR NAME_

Isaac read it over. “What?” he muttered. 

Caboose put a finger over his mouth.

Isaac was tempted to bite him.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Sam leaning back in his little plastic chair (he looked ridiculous, especially since he was still wearing armor), the slightest hint of a smile parked at the corner of his lips.

Isaac’s heart did a small flip. He decided to blame it on the fact he was still Fucked Up from being thrown off what may as well have been a skyscraper.

Caboose gave Isaac the pen back, watching with those wide brown eyes as he attempted to put it in the hold Caboose had shown him.

He managed it.

Isaac stuck out his tongue as he began to write again.

_understand what? and Isaac Gates_

Caboose read over his message. His face contorted slightly, eyebrows furrowing downward thoughtfully. He pointed at Isaac’s name, then, grabbing the pen as he did so, maneuvered himself to be next to Isaac on the fucking bed.

Isaac was pretty sure he made some indignant sound, but Caboose ignored it. He jostled Isaac’s leg just a bit and bumped into his ribs.

Isaac sighed. “Fucking…” and scooted over to make space.

_TUCKER SAID YOU ARE FELIX_

Sam likely couldn’t read what was being written anymore, but he seemed content just to watch the interaction.

Had he forgiven him? Or was he just trying to understand, like Isaac was?

“I am,” said Isaac, and Caboose, surprisingly, didn't shush him this time. Isaac was still staring down at the words. “I’m just… more of this one now,” he continued, pointing at where he’d written ‘Isaac.’ “I think.”

Caboose made an, ‘Ahhhh,’ motion, nodding emphatically.

Then Isaac shifted to point at ‘TUCKER’ and looked to Caboose again.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he was asking, but Caboose nodded enthusiastically again and began writing.

_STOOPID TUCKER IS CONFYUSD. FELIX HURT HIM BUT YOU ARN’T ALL FELIX_

Wait, did that mean the guy who rescued him actually was Tucker?

Oh, God. He just made such an ass of himself.

Caboose continued writing.

_TUCKER SES HI_

He handed Isaac the pen.

Isaac frowned. “Sees hi?” he asked, tapping the pen against the paper. “Wait, do you mean--” He looked up, and both Tucker and the other guy were back in the doorway. “Fucking shit!” he yelped, and instinctively threw the pen at Tucker.

It sailed right at the other guy’s face.

Isaac preemptively winced and--

And the man caught it with a very small frown.

“Oh, fuck,” said Isaac. “It was an accident! And I totally wasn’t aiming for you!” He pointed at Tucker. “I was aiming for your boyfriend!”

The man’s face morphed instantly, going almost entirely red. He said something or the other, obviously forgetting a key factor in regards to a two-way conversation. Either way, Isaac knew he’d made a mistake, and this guy was not Tucker’s boyfriend, but definitely had Thoughts that meant Isaac could 100 percent fuck with him.

“I can’t hear you,” he continued, not entirely succeeding in hiding his smirk, “but also, totally sorry that I called your boyfriend hot.”

Now Isaac could clearly read the man mouthing, ‘He’s not my boyfriend.’

“Oh, right,” said Isaac. He looked to Caboose. “Sorry for almost hitting your boyfriend in the head with a pen.”

Caboose smiled at him.

The man dropped his face in his hands.

Tucker looked… kind of amused?

Isaac turned to Sam, who was rolling his eyes. Then he said something, lips barely moving as he spoke.

He looked back to everyone else.

Tucker flipped him off.

Caboose waved at Tucker, and the bed somehow shook with the force of it. Isaac winced as jolts of pain shot up his body, overlapping the resident aches of before. Whatever pain meds he was on were definitely beginning to wane. He turned to glare at Caboose. “If I can feel your happiness, you’re moving too much.”

Caboose gasped, then, in quick, practiced motions, rapidly signed something of which he could only make out, “Sorry,” “Dog,” “Small,” and “Accident.”

Isaac blinked. “My high school ASL didn't teach me to understand whatever the fuck that was.”

Huh. He’d actually forgotten that he took ASL in high school.

Caboose pointed at Isaac’s head.

He huffed. Isaac still hadn’t gotten a look at his reflection, but considering the reactions he’s gotten, it probably looked bad. “Yeah. My head. It’s fucked up. I know.”

Caboose pouted and shook his head before evidently getting sidetracked by something else.

He frowned. Didn't he hate Caboose at some point? Why had he hated Caboose again?

He spotted Grey walking in, shuffling past numerous people gathered there. She made eye contact with Isaac and lifted a syringe before gesturing at the IV. He nodded, not exactly sure what else she’d want from him.

She continued, and Isaac looked, once again, at the paper. He didn't have the pen anymore, now that the other man had it.

When he glanced up Tucker and that man were bickering.

“Hey, Tucker?” he said. 

Tucker stiffened instantly. He and the man shared a glance that seemed to hold a whole conversation. Isaac was absently aware that he and Sam could often do the same.

Then Tucker turned to him.

Oh, fuck. 

Part of him immediately wanted to snap at Tucker, to just return the middle finger Tucker gave him earlier.

But he remembered, them, Tucker’s voice just before he sent Felix to his death. The confidence, the acceptance. The utter and complete lack of regret. He’d thrown that grenade and was more than prepared to live with the consequences because it’d been the right thing to do.

If he apologized, would Tucker even believe him?

Isaac’s head rolled back and to the side as he released a soft sigh.

Whoever he’d been before -- whoever he was now -- he could learn about later.

 

\--

 

Tucker had, quite impressively, not lost all of his shit when Felix called Tucker Wash’s boyfriend.

Wash, less impressively, blushed furiously and began stuttering his defense to a man who couldn’t even hear what he had to say.

Felix watched him, obviously unimpressed. He didn't look at Tucker, who was cool as a motherfucking cucumber. “I can’t hear you,” he said, and Tucker was pretty sure that there were the makings of a smirk beneath the beard (not the smirk he was familiar with, the one he’d seen so often when they were side-by-side and supposed to be working together but weren’t really), “but also, totally sorry that I called your boyfriend hot.”

The pink spread to the tips of Wash’s ears. It was almost cute, but Tucker didn't do cute he did hot and thus was totally unaffected by this. Wash, very carefully, said, “He’s not my boyfriend.” Which didn't sting at all because Tucker was made of steel.

“Oh, right,” said Felix. His voice was still low and unfamiliar. It was weird, really. Tucker was having a hard time matching the man in front of him with the man who’d tried to ruin their lives. Felix looked to Caboose. “Sorry for almost hitting your boyfriend in the head with a pen.”

Tucker couldn’t help it. A sharp, barking laugh escaped his lips. The fact that Caboose just smiled didn't help that at all.

Caboose, who was literally on the bed with Felix, entirely unfazed. That was another thing that made it so hard to match the before and after -- Felix had been notably cruel to Caboose in the end. But when Tucker and Wash walked in, Felix was hovering close to Caboose, reading what he was writing with genuine intrigue, apparently not bothered by the closeness or Caboose’s palpable enthusiasm. 

Had the injuries changed him, or had they done something else?

Wash facepalmed, muttering something like, “God help me.”

Locus spoke up in that moment, completely startling Tucker because _had he been sitting in that chair the whole time?_ “He’s messing with you,” he offered to Wash, looking vaguely annoyed but completely unsurprised by his former partner’s actions.

Felix’s head whipped to face Wash and Tucker.

Tucker flipped him off.

Caboose, who, despite numerous explanations, continued to believe that being flipped off was a form of greeting (thanks a lot, Church), waved back at Tucker.

Felix did a whole-body flinch before he glared over at Caboose. Tucker felt something rise in him, a protectiveness over the Blue soldier that was probably only matched by his protectiveness of Junior (he’d die before admitting it), but then Felix continued, “If I can feel your happiness, you’re moving too much.”

Caboose was scandalized, and Tucker completely expected him to start yelling out his apologies. Instead, he lifted his hands and started using sign language.

Tucker balked. “What the _fuck?_ Since fucking when could he do that?!”

Wash lifted his brows. “I… don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s Caboose.”

Tucker turned to Wash. “Dude, I’ve known this guy for super-fucking long. I wasn’t even sure he spoke English.”

Wash huffed. “He speaks English. It’s just… a different English.”

Tucker only shifted to let Dr. Grey ease past him. “But now I only have more questions! What else does he know? Did Caboose even know he knew sign language? Is that even actual sign language or is it a variation he made up on the spot?”

“Honestly? Equally possible. Also equally impressive.”

“What’s next?” Tucker lifted his hands in the air. “He knew Spanish this whole time?”

Wash shrugged. “I’d buy it.” He glanced over to Felix and Caboose. “He seems to understand Felix, though. He’s been pretty calm with Caboose. No panic attacks.”

“A true anomaly,” Tucker spat. But he had a point. Before, Felix looked perpetually tense. Maybe Caboose -- and Locus -- were helping that.

But what did that mean for Felix? 

“Hey, Caboose has his moments,” Wash added, an amused lilt to his tone. Tucker could tell he was attempting to keep things light. The attempt was appreciated.

“Hey, Tucker?”

Tucker stiffened.

His eyes sought Wash’s.

Wash gave him a nearly imperceptible nod.

He looked to Felix.

Felix went rigid, and he grinded his jaw shut. His eye searched Tucker’s face, and he looked… nervous? Apprehensive? Like he didn't know what came next.

Frankly, neither did Tucker.

Felix released a soft sigh. His head dropped back, landing on Caboose’s shoulder.

“Uh,” said Caboose, “I think Isaac is asleep.”

“Isaac?” Wash questioned.

Caboose hummed, shifting a bit to get in a more comfortable position. “Yes.”

“Isaac Gates is Felix’s real name,” Locus said. He angled his head to face Wash and Tucker more directly. “I… believe he’s inclined toward it now.”

“You look ridiculous in that chair,” Tucker blurted.

Locus gave him an unimpressed look. 

“He’s sorry,” Wash quickly added. He held out his hand. “Pen?”

Locus managed to look even more unimpressed. “Give the pen to Caboose,” he said, his tone even. “I’m sure he’d like to draw.”

“Oh, yes! I love drawing!”

Wash handed Caboose the pen.

“Thank you Agent Washingtub!” Caboose began scribbling on the paper, his motions small enough to be mindful on the man asleep on his shoulder. “Are you really my boyfriend?” he asked, not looking up.

Wash sputtered.

Tucker knew for a fucking fact that Locus smiled, just for a half-second. “No, Caboose,” Tucker said. “He’s not your boyfriend.”

Caboose hummed. “Yes, uh, I didn't think so. That is Church. Tucker is Washingtub’s boyfriend.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Tucker, thankful his skin hid the blush. “Considering the mess we’re causing, we may as well just become boyfriends.”

Wash’s ears went pink again. “That’s-- that’s--”

“I’m _kidding_ ,” said Tucker.

“Should I go?” asked Locus.

“Why would you have to go?” Tucker asked, not even a little defensive. 

Locus looked between Wash and Tucker, gray eyes narrowing slightly. “F-- Isaac is unconscious. I--”

“Well!” 

Everyone jumped as Grey clapped her hands together. Caboose dropped the paper pad. How the fuck had she out-stealthed Locus? “I think many interesting things are happening here, and I do love psychoanalysis!”

“I-- I really don’t think that’s necessary,” Wash said, forcing a smile.

“Nonsense!” She bent over and grabbed the paper pad before handing it back to Caboose.

“What is sick-and-paralysis?” Caboose asked.

Grey beamed at Caboose. “I do think your presence will be really helpful toward Mr. Gates’s recovery! Of everyone here, you have the best understanding of how his brain may be operating in a given moment taking in account your experience with some aspects of his conditional brain damage. His cognitive challenges won’t be exactly the same as the ones you faced after your injury, based on my scanning, but I have a feeling you’ll be very helpful for him! Plus, it will allow me to better understand both of you and derive how to make sure you have healthy and comfortable functions in more environments!”

“Yes, um, I think you spoke too fast.”

She cocked her head (predatorily, if Tucker were inclined to assign the movement an adverb). “I want you to become good friends with Isaac!”

“Ahhhhhhhh, yes! I can do that! I am great at making friends.”

“You’ve scanned Caboose’s brain?” asked Tucker. 

“I did! Very interesting!”

She didn't elaborate.

Tucker opted against trying to make her. “So, um, about Feli-- about Isaac--”

“Oh, trust me -- if I believed the man in that bed to be the exact same man who killed so many of my friends and colleagues, you can only imagine what’d I’d do!”

He had a flashback to opera singing. “Right. But what does that--”

“It means that his mind is in a state of flux and will continue to be that way for a long time! Ask Caboose!”

“I’m confused a lot,” said Caboose.

“Exactly! But each brain is different from the next, so no one can quite comprehend what’s happening to each other’s unless you have thoroughly studied them for several years and am an expert in the field as well as have a predisposition toward genius-level intellect!”

“So you,” Wash added dryly.

“Yep!” She leaned forward. “How are you, Agent Washington?”

“I’m… great.”

“Of course! And you, Captain Tucker?”

“Uhh, fine?”

She nodded, “And you, Mr. Ortez?”

They looked to Locus, who’d narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously, probably just as curious as the rest of them as to how she knew his last name. “... Fine.”

“Fantastic! Now, since you’re all doing so well, that means you’ll have no problems talking to me as soon as I’m finished here!”

“I’m busy!” said Wash.

“No you’re not, Agent Washington!” Her eyes flashed dangerously. “And I must warn you, I am very persistent when it comes to appointments about the mental state of my patients!”

Wash slunk back so he was partially hidden by Tucker. Jesus. Normally he was all ‘Take me instead!’ and other bullshit. Apparently, mental inquisitions offered the one exception. “We’re not patients,” Tucker said, trying to sound confident. He did not sound confident at all.

“Of course you are! As long as I say so, of course!” She spun on her heel and threw out an arm, blocking Locus, who had managed to stand up and begin sneaking out. “And you are not an exception!”

Locus’ eyes widened fractionally. “I have to… er--”

“You have to nothing! Besides, I’m sure you would like to stay with Mr. Gates. You have a lot of catching up to do, and I’m sure you’d like to make sure he doesn’t start killing people mercilessly once again!”

The whole ‘killing people mercilessly’ was probably a sore spot for Locus, but Tucker got the impression she was implying something beyond just that.

Locus’ eyes flitted to the door and back. “... Fine.”

Damn -- was Locus just awkward? His little obsession with Wash had been weird, but maybe it was because he was like Simmons: socially anxious. 

Heh.

Not so scary now, huh?

Tucker must’ve given some indication of his amusement since Locus looked to him and deadpanned, “What.”

Okay, definitely still scary.

“We’ll be around,” Tucker said, grabbing Wash’s arm. Wash nodded fervently beside him. “So, uh… give us a call when you wanna talk!”

“You better not hide!” Grey said in an obnoxiously chipper tone. “I really don’t want to have to look for you!”

“I like hide and seek!” Caboose called, looking up from his drawing. “I am very good at that game.”

“We won’t!” Wash said and began pulling Tucker out.

As soon as they were out of the medbay, Wash sighed in relief. “God, she gives me the creeps.”

“Yeah,” said Tucker. He pulled at the end of one of his dreads. The hallway was entirely empty, nothing like it had been when the war was in full effect. “Hey, Wash?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think I did the right thing? Saving Felix-- er, Isaac?”

Wash thought on it. “I think so. He seems… genuine. His personality still seems there, but it’s… I think his motivations have changed. He doesn’t remember the bad he’s done before, and I actually think that’s what will keep him from trying it again. Some people learn from their mistakes, but other people learn by seeing the hurt they’ve caused. I think he couldn’t see it before, but now… Finding out that Locus was Sam was probably his tipping point. So, yeah.” He met Tucker’s eyes, making sure he could see the complete sincerity there. “You did the right thing in saving him. Now we just have to help and make sure he stays saved.”

He needed to hear that. That seemed to be the final piece he needed to put his fears at ease.

However, he was always true to form. Tucker snorted. “Ugh. So I have to stick around that asshole?”

“You know, I think I’ve said the same thing about you.”

Tucker grinned. “Oh, fuck you, Wash. You love me.”

Wash gave a low laugh. “I never said I didn't.”

His words seemed to strike him in the same moment they struck Tucker. “Uhh,” said Tucker, very intelligently, not at all flustered. Because he didn't get flustered. Especially not with Wash. Because Wash was just messing around, right? Right. “Ha?”

Wash’s eye twitched. “Uh, sorry-- I-- I didn't mean to-- ah, fuck.”

“No, man, it’s-- uh, it’s okay.” He rubbed the back of his neck and tried for one of his smiles. Based on Wash’s wince, it must’ve fallen flat. “Really.”

“Right. Um, against my better judgment, I think I’m gonna hide from Dr. Grey. So I--”

Tucker, on pure reflex, reached out and grabbed Wash’s arm. “Wait.”

Wash’s neck was flushed red. It wasn’t a very attractive look, but… Oh, fuck it. “You know, I really wouldn’t be that opposed to actually being your boyfriend. Wouldn’t want Caboose to steal you up.”

“Um.” Wash frowned. “Wait. Is this a prank? Tucker, you’re straight.”

Tucker pointed at him. “Hey,” he said. He could barely hear his own voice over the sound of his heart. “I’m pretty sure I’d be the one to know if I was straight.” Then he crossed his arms and huffed. “I mean, like, I prefer girls seventy percent of the time, but there’s still that other thirty percent. And the one other dude who really fit my type was kind of weird -- like, he unironically said Church could call him Cappy. And then he also said that thing about calling him Daddy? So, like, physically my type because he was hot and fit and only a couple years older than me and also lowkey my superior” ohfuckhecouldn’tstop “but not my type ‘cause-- y’know. God, Flowers was weird. AnywayIthinkI’mjustgonna--”

Wash grabbed his shoulders and spun him back around so they were facing each other. Then, after standing there frozen like an idiot for two seconds, he moved his hands to Tucker’s face, bent down, and pressed their lips together.

Tucker pushed into him, wrapping his hands around Wash’s waist, grounding him in the moment even further.

Wash was the one to pull back first, the motion slow, hesitant.

He blinked. “Huh.”

Tucker. Could not lose the name he’d spent all these years building up. He was a smooth motherfucker who wasn’t secretly giddy like a four-year-old on Christmas. Nope. Not him. He smirked. “I think I’d still like it even if you did grow a beard.”

Wash was staring at him, but this time, a small smile was starting to spread on his face.

Then it dropped as Wash drew his head back like he’d been shocked. 

“Wait. Did you say _Flowers_?”

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe my first published RvB fic didn't feature Grimmons.
> 
>  
> 
> may continue in a series so I can actually explore what I didn't get the chance to in this fic. stay tuned, y'all


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